


Another Problem

by imbrem_aureum



Series: Daring Donations [2]
Category: Monty Python's Flying Circus
Genre: Anal Sex, Condoms, Desperation, Doctor/Patient, Hospitals, M/M, Medical Examination, Medical Kink, Omorashi, Semi-Public Sex, Urinating During Sex, Urinating While Erect, Urination, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29859963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imbrem_aureum/pseuds/imbrem_aureum
Summary: Typically, Samson would roll his eyes at yet another armchair physician thinking they know his job better than he does, but that’s not what Grimshaw’s doing. He wants Samson’s attention, his hands on him, wants to carry out his fantasy.
Relationships: Mr. Grimshaw/Dr. Samson
Series: Daring Donations [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2195259
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Another Problem

**Author's Note:**

> I can't leave these two alone!
> 
> For those who haven't read this fic's predecessor, this series is based entirely on a 2-minute Flying Circus sketch, "Blood Donor". John Cleese plays the doctor and Eric Idle plays the hopeful donor (who wants to give urine instead of blood.) You could probably read this fine without knowing the previous story.

It takes the man a week before he shows his face in the hospital again. Samson remembers his name, though his immediate reaction isn’t greeting him cordially—he doubts it ever will be. Quite the opposite. It’s pure embarrassment as their eyes meet across the corridor, Grimshaw in the queue but not really queuing, merely using it as an excuse to look at him. 

What Samson did in the examination room wasn’t exactly wrong. What he’d done afterwards, once he’d travelled home, watched television, eaten his dinner, retired to bed, then . . . well. It happened, only the once. Masturbating over the thought of what he didn’t do, what he’d wished on some level he had done... Now that _was_ wrong. 

The image had plagued him: Grimshaw collapsed over the exam bench, panting and weak, legs trembling, posterior displayed so lewdly and so ready for… something he’d lose his job over. And here the man was, appearing just as he’d managed to forget exactly what he looked like with those blue imploring eyes, those shapely lips parted in pleasure as he relieved himself in abundance, heat bleeding through the glass. Samson didn’t want to see him.

“Good morning, sir,” Samson says, when Grimshaw slips out of line and invades his personal space in that uniquely unthreatening way of his. Can he pretend he doesn’t remember him? He sees thousands of patients pass through here every week.

Leaning into Samson’s neck, Grimshaw whispers, “I need your help again, Doctor.” 

“What help would that be?” He uses his clipboard as a shield. If he keeps an eye on it, keeps his pencil poised, he’ll look busy, like he has no time for soft-eyed gentlemen who, with one look, can apparently get anything they want from him. 

“One of those little pots to—”

“Give a urine sample?” Samson finishes. 

“I’m… desperate to go.” He wriggles with visible discomfort, hands crossed before his groin. “Very.” 

“You’re free to use the bathroom,” Samson says flatly. He glances at the queue and adds a false mark to the tally, a mark he’ll erase later. It corresponds to no one joining the end of the line of bodies, but he wants to look like he has better things to do. He does. 

“Problem is,” Grimshaw says, standing up on his tiptoes to speak even more softly into Samson’s ear, “I’ve been having trouble going lately.” 

“Then you should make an appointment with a GP. The front desk can assist you with registering if you haven’t already.” 

Grimshaw looks deflated, briefly. Though this, Samson knows, is not a man who gives up easily. Grimshaw steps away, leaning against the wall between the water cooler and the suggestion box. It’s like he’s plotting what to do next while, in the meantime, trying to appear inconspicuous, part of the furniture. He couldn’t be less inconspicuous to Samson, who’s distracted enough by his mere presence that he walks into an empty alcove and pretends there’s something there on the wall to check. There isn’t. It’s just paint and plaster.

“I don’t have time to go to the front desk,” Grimshaw says, appearing in the entrance to the alcove, effectively blocking Samson’s exit. “My problem requires immediate medical attention.” And god, he looks pitiful: pleading eyes, pouted and trembling lips, the kind of expression a boy might pull in a last-ditch attempt to stop his father taking a belt to him. 

“I’m on duty,” Samson says, and he almost sounds apologetic. “I can call a nurse if you’d like?”

Grimshaw shakes his head and looks like he’s about to cry. What would it look like if Samson reduced a man to tears? Would they move him to a less cushy department? Open an inquiry? Perhaps they’d merely give him a verbal warning. None of those options are particularly desirable. 

“Do you have any other pressing symptoms, Mr Grimshaw?” 

A smile lift’s Grimshaw’s lips briefly; Samson cares enough to remember his name. “I’d rather discuss it somewhere more private. These things are supposed to be confidential, are they not?”

Samson draws a long breath. The queue is slow today. Overhearing the nurses on his lunch break, he knows they’re overstaffed in the blood bank, probably won’t need use of the examination room even if there’s a sudden influx of donors. He can give Grimshaw fifteen minutes. 

“Very well.” He doesn’t bother inviting Grimshaw to follow him to an examination room that’s slightly further away than last time. They both know full well why they’re going there. 

The room looks the same as the other. It smells clean and clinical, has the same exam bench, drawn-back privacy curtain and disorganised trolley of drawers on one side, tiny sink, table, and pair of chairs on the other. The only difference this time is that Samson closes the door behind them. It’s a quiet wing, only a few offices and storage rooms. Nobody will have seen them enter. The only thing the nurses might notice is how long Samson’s been missing, if they care to look for him at all.

“Would you care to sit down?” Samson asks. He gestures to one of the chairs as he lays his clipboard down on the table, but Grimshaw hops up onto the exam bench. Clearly, he has something in mind. 

“It’s the same problem I had last time,” Grimshaw says, already untucking his shirt from his trousers. “I don’t think we ever got to the bottom of it, did we?” 

Samson stands by the curtain, watches Grimshaw lie back and expose his abdomen. It’s bloated like last time: indicative of a very full bladder. 

To comply with hospital regulations, Samson pulls the curtain around them both. If anyone should walk in, thinking the room empty, it’d look bad if he’d not concealed his patient in a state of undress, even one as small as this. 

This is all heading in one direction though, isn’t it? Samson knows what Grimshaw wants (more immediately, it’s his hands on his abdomen; in the long-term, it’s internal prostate stimulation) but at this point, it’s been there, done that. He’d let it happen last time, gone along with it and suffered for it on a personal level. Guilt and shame make a man do strange things. But not this time. This time, he’s going to get Grimshaw to leave him alone once and for all. 

“Are you requesting an examination, Mr Grimshaw?” he asks, looking at the man’s stomach, then into his eyes with the sternest expression he can muster. 

“Oh, yes please, Doctor.” He nods eagerly. “I think I need it.” 

There’s no way his current state isn’t uncomfortable. If Samson drags this out, really takes his time, Grimshaw will be forced to excuse himself in sheer desperation, then there’ll be no need for this to go any further. 

“I will perform a thorough check-up then, to ensure there are no underlying issues affecting your ability to pass water.” 

Grimshaw swallows, presses his dark hair back into the exam bench. “Mmm. If you think that’s best.” 

He starts with blood pressure. There’s a cuff in the drawer beside the bench. Grimshaw has to take off his jacket and roll his sleeve up past his elbow, wincing whenever a movement causes him to compress his bladder. Pumping the balloon until the cuff sits snug, the pressure dial shows a normal reading. 

Next is pulse measurement. It’s slightly elevated, but the rhythm is regular and force strong. Grimshaw has impossibly soft wrists. He bats his eyelashes as Samson counts against the clock in his breast pocket, making him lose his place twice.

Listening to his chest is interesting, because this has Grimshaw writhing in what appears to be discomfort from the moment he presses the stethoscope’s diaphragm to his chest. It’s not that the metal is cold. It’s through his shirt, after all. Listening gives Samson his answer. His pulse quickens, breaths coming faster. His pupils dilate as he stares up at him, hands gripping the bench’s plush edge. 

In a child, Samson would’ve said this all indicated fear. For Grimshaw, an adult with proclivities towards convincing doctors to take him to secluded rooms for fictional problems, it’s almost definitely arousal. He’d known that on some level, but having it confirmed with medical fact... It’s… not as offensive as he’d expected. It’s flattering in a way. The medical profession can be deeply unglamourous when you’re a part of it. To an outsider, it must seem alluring. 

“Are you happy for me to continue?” Samson asks quietly, his face close to Grimshaw’s. “You seem nervous.” 

“Nope. Not nervous,” Grimshaw says quickly. “Just, you know.” He strokes his abdomen to remind Samson of the apparent issue here. “Desperate to go.” 

“Would you mind opening your shirt? Just a couple of buttons.” 

Grimshaw does it, parting the white cotton with shaky hands. And good. Samson’s enjoying seeing him like this, selfishly. As of yet, he hasn’t been lucky enough to have a patient to care for, let alone one that has the doctor-patient crush they warn about in your first week of medical training.

He presses the diaphragm to the hairless patch of chest Grimshaw’s revealed, trying not to smile when he jolts and shudders, closes his eyes. The press of the pad has him squirming, his nipples raising to stiff peaks. Samson tells him to take deep breaths and hold them, not really listening to anything but his pulse rate rising, not really observing anything but the flush of arousal blossoming down his throat and over his collar bones.

“Would you sit up please?” 

Grimshaw does, legs dangling over the edge of the bench, knees almost touching Samson’s thighs. With the added height of the bench, their faces are almost level. Grimshaw’s eyes are all over him as he makes some notes on his clipboard, just readings, but it’ll look official, like something a doctor would do. Grimshaw will like it, and Samson will like that he likes it.

“Anything?” Grimshaw asks. 

“Not yet, I’m afraid. I’m still making investigations.” 

“Anything you think it might be?” 

“I wouldn’t want to say. Ideally, my next test would require a urine sample” —Grimshaw’s eyes light up— “but that’s where we’re having the trouble, isn’t it.”

His shoulders slump a little. “What would the test do?”

“Indicate the presence of any usual accumulations in your system, something that might be causing your difficulty. It would be the next step, if you think you’d like to give it another try?” 

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to,” Grimshaw says, lowering his gaze, “not without your help.” 

Samson knows that, knows exactly why too, and he’s ready with, “That’s why I’d recommend a temporary catheter. A nurse would insert it, giving you immediate relief, and me something to test.” He’s not giving in that easily. The man’s going to have to work for it this time.

Grimshaw shakes his head. “I don’t… think that’s necessary.” Typically, Samson would roll his eyes at yet another armchair physician thinking they know his job better than he does, but that’s not what Grimshaw’s doing. He wants Samson’s attention, his hands on him, wants to carry out his fantasy. 

“There is one other reason I can think of… though I doubt you’ll be comfortable discussing it with me.” He sees Grimshaw’s guard go up, his back stiffening, but his shyness has never been a problem before, not in the long run. 

“I’m comfortable discussing anything with you, Doctor.” He darts a look up at him through his lashes, then looks down at his hands in his lap. 

Samson slides his pencil into his coat’s breast pocket and puts the clipboard down. Lowering his voice, he leans closer, almost too close, the way Grimshaw often does to him. “Sometimes, unresolved arousal can affect your water.” The tiny gasp Grimshaw makes against his shoulder is wonderful, almost a confession. “Are you having any difficulties there?”

“H-how does it affect it?” Grimshaw asks, and Samson might be going mad, but he thinks the man just spread his legs a little, the movement disguised within his discomforted fidgeting. 

“If the tissues surrounding the urethra are swollen, this can result in difficulty passing water.” In layman’s terms, a persistent or semi-present erection equals trouble peeing. Grimshaw will want to hear the medical terms. “Though, as I said, I doubt that’s the case here.”

“You’re wrong,” Grimshaw says, and his voice has a strength and determination to it that Samson’s never heard before. 

“Oh?” Samson stays where he is, bent into Grimshaw’s space, leaning in close, but he lets his gaze fall to his crotch. It’s mostly hidden by a loosened half of his buttoned shirt, but the shape of him through his trousers is unmistakably larger than it was during his earlier examination. 

“Is it not obvious?” Grimshaw says, agitated.

“I’m afraid not.” God, he loves seeing him squirm.

Grimshaw’s shaky hand raises to Samson’s chest, palm hovering a moment before pressing lightly against a white lapel. As it slides lower, his breath trembles, hand brushing his draped stethoscope, the clock pinned to his pocket, his coat’s pearl buttons. There’s a noticeable twitch in his groin, the fabric pulling taut as its forced to conceal more volume. Samson doesn’t move. He wants to hear him say it. 

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” Grimshaw whispers, his fingers enclosing around Samson’s tie. “It’s the mere existence of you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“I see.” He hopes his voice is unreadable, not revealing the deep satisfaction coiling in his chest, making his mouth go dry. 

Standing still and saying nothing compels Grimshaw further, his fingers creeping up the length Samson’s tie past the knot, breath warm on his face as a cautious fingertip trails the edge of his collar. Samson can’t help remembering how he’d moaned last week while he urinated, when he’d pushed his index finger inside him, resulting in that trembling mess of a man when he was done with him. 

“It’s a strain on the body,” Samson says, pushing his voice through where it had been lodged in his throat, “having a full bladder. I think it’s best we resolve the issue now.” 

Grimshaw nods slowly. “Resolve it, Doctor. Please. Any way you’d like.” 

It wasn’t like Samson had been resisting getting physically aroused, but that was a one-way ticket: free rein to do whatever he wants to his patient, a patient whose symptom is arousal, and arousal over him. How could he resist that?

“Bend over, like last time,” Samson says under his breath. “Trousers down.”

“Yes, Doctor.” In his swift, fluid movement of sliding off the bench, their bodies touch, Grimshaw’s groin brushing Samson’s and making his state of arousal unmistakable. 

Samson tries to keep his head as he slips out through the curtain, taking what he needs from the supplies trolley. Lubricant gel, a blue latex glove, a condom—he is a doctor after all; he’ll follow medical advice—and what the hell, a pot for Grimshaw to ejaculate into if he wants it, though he’d failed miserably last time. 

The door to the room doesn’t lock, but Samson is almost certain that if they keep quiet, they’ll be able to enjoy themselves uninterrupted. 

Entering the curtained-off area again, he purses his lips at the sight of the other man, hopelessly desperate, forehead braced on his arm as he bends with his backside presented, ripe for the taking. Samson’s never done anything like this before, but he knows exactly how it’s done. That’s what he must remember if he’ll stand any chance of not coming before he’s even rolled the condom down: the medical technique. That’ll get Grimshaw off too. 

The snap of his glove has Grimshaw shuddering, a tiny whimper muffling into the exam bench. 

“I’ll be applying some lubricant to make things more comfortable.” He says it clinically, tone no different to the ‘sharp scratch’ before a blood test. Grimshaw whimpers what might be a thank you; Samson’s blood is pumping so fast he barely hears it.

“Deep breaths, Mr Grimshaw,” he requests, parting his buttocks gently as he’s done before. His intimacy looks the same as last time, impeccably clean, neat, and a pretty pink that’s somehow supple looking. He can sink inside it soon, and that makes this all the more difficult, because he wants it now, now, now. His stomach flips over and over. 

A fingerful of lubricant is all Grimshaw needs at first, his asshole opening almost obediently for that first finger, the gloves easing the insertion. He pushes in to the knuckle, twisting the slick inside, then applies some more. Grimshaw whimpers a little too loudly, so he leans over his back and tells him he’ll have to stay quieter than that if this is going to happen. 

He watches, really watches, as he presses two fingers inside, Grimshaw as quiet as he told him. Powder blue slides into pale pink, splitting it open, the visible rim swelling darker as Grimshaw’s breaths become a trembling, stuttering mess. 

“Breathe,” Samson reminds him. “Try to relax.” 

If only he could tell himself that. His own cock is positively throbbing now, and he’d drive into Grimshaw right now if he didn’t care for his comfort. But he does, for some inane reason. Perhaps, if he treats him good, he’ll come back. 

“How’s that feel?” he asks, two fingers sliding in and out with ease now. “Any discomfort?”

“No. Good. It feels – ah! – good, Doctor.” 

He’s deliberately avoiding his prostate, but he feels his full bladder putting pressure on it, squeezing his back passage so it’s much tighter than last time. He’s ready though, relaxed enough to take something much bigger. Samson bins the glove and grits his teeth. This is going to feel quite wonderful. 

It feels wonderful indeed to unbutton his fly, finally alleviating the pressure trapping his erection in his tight trousers. He slides his cock out through the parted fabric, wetting his lips with his tongue at the sight of himself swollen so hard. He knows from his work that he’s bigger than average, but it’s been a long time since he’s been this aroused, and it’s… a lot. Grimshaw is a champ if he can take it. 

Ripping the condom wrapper has his hands shaking with anticipation. This is the point where he loses his head, isn’t it? 

The thin rubber is cool against the tip of his cock, and as he rolls it down his inches, the mildly numbing effect of the barrier has him calming somewhat, anchoring him so he isn’t carried away by nerves. This’ll help him last too, help him give Grimshaw the seeing-to he needs. 

He still needs a moment, though. He needs to take his own deep breaths, centre himself. Sliding Grimshaw’s shirt up—running his fingers over the bumps of his spine, dimples either side—he lays his heavy cock against the small of his back. Grimshaw squirms, feeling its heat seep through the latex, the weight of it laying there against bare skin, waiting.

“Is this what you want?” Samson asks, voice low. 

Grimshaw can barely speak, but he manages a, “P-please.”

Almost as if to justify his intended actions to himself, Samson says, “I hope this will help relieve your symptoms.” He takes himself in hand and lines himself up with Grimshaw’s backside. 

“Yes, Doctor. It will...”

Very well, then. Who is he to turn down the opportunity of helping a patient? Ideally, Grimshaw would spread his legs a little wider, but his trousers and boxers around his ankles make that impossible, and Samson has no desire to wrestle with shoes and fabric right now. It’ll be a little less comfortable for Grimshaw because of it, but it’ll be more enjoyable for Samson, another reason he’s not pressing for the ideal. 

“Keep taking those deep breaths,” Samson says, and as Grimshaw exhales, he presses his hips forward, the tip of his cock sinking into that tight yet elastic muscle. “Fuck…” 

The word slips out involuntarily, the feeling too intense for him to bite it back in time. Grimshaw doesn’t seem to mind. He’s keening like a trapped animal already, fingers curled around the edge of the bench, knuckles white. Samson can’t look at his hands for long, though. The sight of his cock sinking between his pert, pale cheeks is almost too much to behold. He has to clench his jaw and tip his head back, take a deep breath of his own. 

“Doctor,” Grimshaw breathes, begs, and he’s pushing back, actually pushing back against him, forcing more of him to press inside his explicit heat. 

Samson holds the man’s waist with one hand, gripping tight as he presses him back against the bench. “You must keep still.” 

“S-sorry, Doctor… It’s just, so… God.” 

He’s slid all the way inside with ease, his stomach pressed to Grimshaw’s backside, balls flush to the backs of his thighs. With only his hips, he’s got the man pinned to the bench, his cock gripped deliciously by his body. The volume in his bladder has everything wonderfully constricted, and it must be intense for him too. After everything this man has put him through, he should want to punish him, fuck him hard in the hope that he’ll never return. Part of him wonders if that’s what Grimshaw wants, too. 

Holding the condom at its base, he thrusts, cock sliding impossibly deeper. It sounds like Grimshaw has shoved his whole fist in his mouth, trying, really trying, to be quiet. When he slides out, almost all the way, the condom is soaked and glistening, clinging to the contours of his cock. It’s safe to really give it to him then, fuck him properly. 

Grimshaw’s waist is surprisingly slender. Sliding both hands under his shirt, he holds it, keeping him in place as he starts a slow, deep rhythm that sounds as obscene as it feels. Samson’s silver fly buttons rattle, Grimshaw’s dropped belt chinks against the bench’s metal legs, and the bench itself rocks from the force of their joining. Grimshaw’s panting himself hoarse, and what this must sound like if anyone overhears.

“Doctor, I—” 

Samson doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t think he could if he tried. It’s the most incredible thing he’s ever felt, his body aflame with the pleasure and satisfaction of having Grimshaw all to himself to do with as he pleases.

“I—” Grimshaw tries again. He sounds like he’s on the edge of his nerves, like he’s holding back a scream. Samson longs to hear it.

Bending his knees, he uses the new angle to thrust in and up hard, forcing Grimshaw up onto his tiptoes. His hips slam, cock driving in so deep he’s surprised he doesn’t break the man in two. It’s impossible to slow down now, not when his balls are pulling tight and his body is begging him to stop resisting and just come. That’s all he wants now. He’s past caring, past being a considerate doctor helping a patient. He wants to enjoy Grimshaw selfishly, leave him used, dig his fingers into his waist until he’s bruised. 

The stabbing, relentless penetration has Grimshaw whimpering with every push inside, his legs giving way, leaving Samson to hold him up. He gives him an unforgiving, ferocious pace, their bodies meeting and parting in a wet slam, slam, slam that leaves ripples in the flesh of Grimshaw’s backside. 

“Doctor!” 

Everything Grimshaw’s doing points one direction: he’s about to orgasm. But then… Samson stops, cock buried, and realisation dawns: Grimshaw is wet, no, _wetting_ , writhing as hot piss dribbles down his thighs, the fabric around his ankles soaking it up. 

Samson feels the slowly releasing pressure, the movement inside, while Grimshaw whimpers as though he’s coming instead, the release both a relief and a horror, his skin burning hot under Samson’s hands. 

“I’m s-so sorry,” Grimshaw whimpers, gripping the bench hard. Urinating while erect is difficult, but he’s managing it, the flow a weak trickle but persistent, staining his boxers dark. 

Samson finally moves again, mesmerised. He slides out almost all the way, holding the base of his cock as he presses in again, slow, so slow, Grimshaw choking when the intrusion forces the stream to spurt out a little faster. It feels… fascinating, surprisingly wonderful, and to assuage Grimshaw’s embarrassment, he leans over his back and speaks into his ear. 

“Don’t worry. This is what we hoped for, isn’t it?” He rolls his hips gently as he stays deep, hearing the result: a brief squirt of liquid splashing against the bench, then a dripping against the tile. Their position means Samson isn’t getting a drop on him, and he doesn’t want to think too hard about why he likes this. He just does. 

Grimshaw can only nod. He makes a pained sound when Samson snakes a hand around to his front, presses his palm over his erection. Like this, he can feel the results of his efforts. Grimshaw wets against his hand, a gentle stream of burning hot urine Samson can force out with his cock. 

Pressing his forehead between Grimshaw’s should blades, he maintains the slow, captivating rhythm, the fresh bursts of liquid rushing against his palm. Grimshaw’s pubic hair is soaked, and when Samson feels lower, he finds his balls drawn tight against his body, dripping wet, spasming from overstimulation. As soon as his bladder empties, he going to come; the flow’s held back right now.

“Nearly there,” Samson soothes, and he means it as comfort. It must be the most unnerving feeling, though Grimshaw’s nearly empty, and they’re both at the edge of orgasm. “You’re doing so well.” 

A few more thrusts, and the stream dries up, a guttural moan lost into the bench as Grimshaw finally comes. His orgasm has his asshole clenching down on Samson’s cock, dragging him over the edge with him as hot semen rushes over his already wet hand.

There’s nothing like this, apparently. Samson has done many exciting things in his life, but nothing measures up to coming inside the warm, slick heat of this man’s backside. He digs his fingers into him, bites a mouthful of his shirt between his teeth to stop himself howling, and his body wrings the last of his energy from him by forcing his hips to fuck and thrust of their own volition until all he can manage is collapsing, draped over Grimshaw’s back. 

He’s not a slight man, so he’s probably crushing Grimshaw right now, his full weight pinning him to the bench, cock still buried in him. It twitches inside, and every time it does, Grimshaw shudders, inhales a shaky gasp. Neither of them wants to move, neither of them can, but Samson must. If he’s any chance of making this seem even remotely professional, he must return to his earlier guise. 

“Well done,” he says softly, forcing himself up onto his arms. He holds the condom as he slides out, his cock that had once stretched the latex now shrinking inside it. It’s full, the tip weighty with his load. “Don’t worry about the mess. We’ll deal with it.”

There’s one final mind-numbing sight to rob him of breath, and that’s Grimshaw’s hole squeezing closed, the muscle shrinking as it reaccommodates to not being stuffed full. There’s no blood; the practitioner in Samson cares about that as a priority. What he’s really interested in is how his mind blanks at the thought of what the other man might’ve looked like now if he’d come inside him, but that’s a thought for another time. 

His legs almost buckle beneath him as he deposits the knotted condom in the medical waste bin, readjusts himself, and instinctively starts washing his hands. Grimshaw is silent behind the curtain, the only sound his breathing. Like last time, he’ll be collapsed in there, unable to move for a while. 

“I’ll get you some scrubs,” Samson says, turning off the tap. “And a bag for your wet clothes.”

When he pulls the curtain aside, Grimshaw looks mortified. It makes Samson feel entirely dreadful. 

“I’m so sorry about this,” Grimshaw says again. He’s stepped out of his messed trousers and is standing against the back wall, hands covering his lower nudity his shirt mostly conceals. Between them, there’s a great puddle of urine on the floor, slowly bleeding along the grout between the tiles. “I couldn’t stop it.” 

“It’s all right,” he says, and he means it. “There’s no need for embarrassment.” 

“Thank you, Doctor.” Just as Samson goes to say that he doesn’t need to thank him either, Grimshaw widens his eyes, gives him a knowing look. “No. _Thank you_. For what you did.”

He looks hopeless, standing there covering his privates, all pink-cheeked and worried. Samson has never been one for saying what he feels—and he feels like comforting him, kissing him softly on the lips and telling him how wonderful it felt to be inside him—so he nods once, then goes to fetch those scrubs. 

In the storage room, one of the cleaning staff whose name he doesn’t know is attempting to reach up to a high shelf for a pack of sponges. Samson gets it down for her and her smile’s grateful. 

“I’m afraid someone had an accident in exam room two,” he tells her. “Could you come clean it up in five?” 

“Oh, poor dear. What was it?” She’s probably asking so she knows what kind of product to bring. Blood is harder to scrub out than urine, requires a stronger bleach. There’s something about her expression that makes him think she’s also just that kind of person: compassionate. 

“Fear of the needle,” Samson says, thinking fast. He’s known little boys wet themselves before because of that. “He’s fine now.”

Was he fine? Samson didn’t know. Grimshaw was unhinged, and he’d probably be back against next week for more of the same. He can’t risk keeping this up, though he could perhaps risk a look at his medical record if he gets his first name. 

From there, an address… then perhaps a home visit from the man’s favourite physician… 

Maybe he just wants to check in on him and see how he’s doing now they’ve resolved or at least relieved his initial symptoms. 

Maybe he wants to see what Grimshaw looks like on his back, helpless, legs spread wide, allowed to make as much noise as he desires. 

Maybe Samson is the one with the problem now.


End file.
